Memories
by Basil Leaves
Summary: Memories sometimes can really hurt, only if one doesn't have any friends with them.


Memories

The third task was only weeks away. Harry, Ron and Hermione were busying themselves in the library, searching for spells that would come in handy during the task. However, exam was also coming near. Ron and Hermione hadn't done much revision yet; they spent most of their time preparing Harry for his upcoming task. Harry was grateful, but he feared that they would do poorly in their exams.

"You two should study more." That was very Hermione-like, thought Harry, I wonder why I said that.

"For a thousand times, Harry, we're fine. It's you we've got to worry about. The third task's supposed to be the most dangerous one."

"Who cares about the exam?" said Ron offhandedly, earning him a smack from Hermione, "Anyway, what we're doing right now is revision for defense!"

Harry couldn't express his gratitude. Such good friends……He felt his eyes burned. Swallowing hard, he suggested, "Let's find more books, shall we?"

The three passed the librarian as quietly as possible. Harry and Ron would enter the defensice spells section, if Hermione didn't lead them towards the oldnewspaper corner. She explained that there was a large variety of useful spells that one would seldom knew.

"No use, this one. Who would want to learn how to get rid of a ghoul?" murmured Hermione, Putting the paper aside.

"Says who? My biggest dream's to chase away the ghoul above my room!" Ron snatched the paper and searched, his nose barely an inch away.

"Now, Ronald, you've got the wrong one." said Hermione, "Here you are."

Ron abandoned the paper immediately; something on it caught Harry's eye.

In the bottom left corner, there was a picure of skinny, dark-haired boy, a lightening scar visible under his hair. The boy was pulling an old fridge using a wooden cart. Above it was the title, which Harry chose not to read. Apparently, Rita Skeeter had been inventing stories about him years ago. His head was swelling, as he reminded one of the worst days with the Dursleys.

Turning around the corner, a ten-year-old Harry leaned against the banyan tree, sweating and panting. The wooden cart he was pulling had become heavier and heavier every moment, but it was only ten o'clock in the morning. "It's going to be a long day." Shaking his head, he rose and went back to "work".

Aunt Petunia had ordered him to deliver their old fridge to a family in the neighbourhood. "Make sure they pay by cash, not cheque!" she snapped when Harry stepped out of the door.

Now Harry winced as he stepped into the sun -- the bright light blinded his eyes. He had to blink several times before he could see anything. Large umbrellas stood on the two sides of the alley, using their bodies to protect street venders from the evil sun rays. One of them caught Harry's interest. The man was busying himself kneading four, which turned black gradually. As his hands reached for the salt, the mystery was solved. The bread-maker's finger nails were stuffed with dirt, sending shivers up Harry' spine. "Note to self, never buy food from him." Mutter Harry darkly. It wasn't he had any pocket money though.

A woman and a young fellow eyed Harry curiously. The woman had painted her nails with deep red, and was sucking a green quill. In front of her, a note pad hovered in the mid air. The young fellow stood next to her, his hands holding something behind his back. Both of them had just interviewed a retired quidditch star living nearby, and decided to treat themselves with muggle snacks.

At the present they looked quite alarmed. One doesn't see a kid in oversized clothes mumbling to himself everyday. As gingerly as they could, they retreated until their backs hit the wall, and observed. The "kid in oversized clothes" seemed quite sane now, though tired. He had a pair of panda like eyes. The top buttons of his shirt were loose, revealing a skinny chest, bones could be seen. He trudged as slow as a snail. The reporter quickly dropped down all her observations. The young fellow took out a professional looking camera: he was a photographer. "Snap!" he took a photo once he found a good ange.

Harry could tell someone was watching him. He looked around, but saw no one paying him attention. "How strange." He thought. A faint snap was heard, but he ignored it. Street venders often nade various noises to attract customers. On his left a bicycle was sleeping peacefully, using the ground as its bed, the wall as its cushion. "Oh, how wonderfuo it'd be if I could sleep at this moment…" Harry was dizzy, his head was pounding. He was thirsty, for he had only been allowed to have a sip of water since he had waken up. His grip on the cart slackened, he staggered. Finally, he fainted.

Harry couldn't recall what happened afterwards, except that he spent a week under the stairs again.

"That's no use, Dad's tried it for a million times. That wretched ghoul never leaves the attic." Ron threw the paper away, and was rewarded a glare from Madam Pince.

Harry wanted to laugh, but obered as he saw his picture on the newspaper.

"Het, Harry, are ou tired?" You're spacing out all the time." Asked a concerned Hermione.

"He must be, and not to metion how sleepy I am." Joked Ron.

Common, we haven't find a useful spell yet, let's continue." Said Harry. Once again he was grateful that he always had his two best friends beside him. He'd worry about the Dursleys later.

The end

* * *

um...so how's it?

Basil Leaves


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